Where have all the men gone?

It’s all doom and gloom out there in the world. But it’s finally warm in New York, I went to stay with one of my closest friends over Easter, my sister got engaged, and my gel nails are still perfect after 3 full weeks. So I am largely thriving.

Who is not thriving apparently is men. Specifically, male novelists. Granta announced their “Best Young Novelists under 40” this week and of the twenty selected, only a few were men. The New Statesman ran a slightly salty, slightly tongue in cheek article about how it isn’t cool to be a literary man anymore. Gone are the days of alcoholism, glamorous poverty, and womanizing to produce the next great novel. This is not me editorializing; the article is all about vibes. It is also clickbait, I’m pretty sure. It juxtaposes David Foster Wallace (allegedly made terminally uncool by a spate of DFW bro type articles) with John Green, the new brand of male novelist, condemned to write unthreatening feel-good bestsellers.

Obviously, the juxtaposition he…